Donnerstag, 31. Januar 2013

I haven’t totally recovered from Nairobi—in a way, I don’t think I ever will. How does one recover from such a nice town and such awesome people? How can I ever forget the friendly and funny Moving Africa participants? When will I see them again? They are still as lively in my memory as they were in Nairobi— Kojo Laing’s famous talks about mutation and later religion; Feling Capela, constantly behind his camera; Ntone Edjabe, always philosophizing; Chuma passionately talking about his goal of reading his work in as many cities as possible, Sylvia and her interesting alternative fiction and humor; Kivu, with his love for Tusker and good movies; Joseph, who is highly concerned with the growth of south Sudan and wants art to shape the nation.

Kwani is undoubtedly the most influential journal to have emerged from sub-Saharan Africa, and if anybody doubts this fact, the biennial Kwani literary festival is enough to shut them up. The 2012 Kwani literary festival was full of people from all walks of life and the venues were usually full (at the premier screening of Nairobi Half Life, the Goethe-Institut in Nairobi was full and had our (the Moving Africa participants and I) space not been reserved, we’d have had to stand up — this is how we measure a culture-conscious country.

The literary festival was full of writers, journalists, photographers, students, tourists, bloggers, fashion designers, literary enthusiasts, and disc jockeys, just to name a few. Talking about DJ’s, I met so many talented DJ’s in Nairobi — DJ Zelalem, Raphael & Sharon (from the World’s Loudest Library) and Ntone Edjabe, whom I consider to be an iconoclastic icon, one of a kind.

The theme of the festival, Conversations with the Horn, is a laudable choice cognizant of the tribulations of the region and the growth of new nations, and it attests to the fact that Kwani is concerned with the evolution of the region and the role culture can play in bridging divides and borders (the Chimurenga Chronicle’s editorial bemoans the fact that everyone who can is building a wall [border]).

The social media does not seem to have any secrets for Kwani. Kwani did not fail to make sure that those who couldn’t make it to the festival could follow it on the internet. The whole festival was streamed on Kwani’s website and highlights were posted on Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. But it was on Twitter that Kwani had a mammoth presence during the festival. The hash tag #kwanilitfest was all over Twitter, and it wasn’t only @kwanitrust that was tweeting, because their numerous followers were sharing their thoughts on Tweeter and it was as if there was a mini festival on Tweeter given people kept tweeting late into the night, long after the events of the day were over.

Networking was the order of the day during the festival and I didn’t miss an opportunity to promote Bakwa Magazine (a magazine of art culture and photography which I started about a year ago).
We had an amazing tour of the Goethe-Institut and the Kwani Trust venues. The folks at the Goethe-Institut and Kwani are fabulously friendly and kind— thank you. I had the most awesome time in Nairobi (no close encounters with Nairobbery) and there is so much about this city that I fell in love with. These days, my muse has been in Nairobi mode, and there is some fiction and poetry in the pipeline.

Mittwoch, 16. Januar 2013

There comes a time in our lives when we wish we could turn back the hands of time, but then, we get confused because there are many lovely experiences littered over the years and we don’t know which one to choose. At this point of my life I feel like turning back the hands of time, but contrarily to my preamble, I know exactly what week I need to go back to. 8.12.2012. That is the date I’d choose if I could go back in time because it was a unique week— mark that unique is an understatement here, because words cannot do justice to the ineffable time I had in Nairobi. Kojo Laing says you cannot live in a place without that place having an impact on you, so in a way, Nairobi has left an imprint on me.

I must confess that my sojourn started in a somewhat murky manner. After a lot of bureaucracy which ended in “missing” documents and last minute authorization, I boarded an airplane to Nairobi. Before I boarded the plane, a guy at Kenyan airways said I looked more Kenyan than Cameroonian, and it reminded me of the fact that some time ago I was told that I looked like an Indian. When I reached Jomo Kenyatta Airport in the morning, I waited for two hours and I was told by immigration that they hadn’t received their copy of my authorization, and given that it was a weekend, they weren’t sure when it’d come, so the Goethe-Institut in Nairobi had the original copy delivered to the airport. Things were cleared up and I was given a visa. The guy behind me gave his passport and the lady at the immigration said “you have a Cameroonian passport, please stand aside.” I felt disturbed by her utterance. What was wrong with having a Cameroonian passport? and it got me thinking about the mental and physical boundaries that we create and estrange one another.

The first thing I notice in Nairobi is that taxis are not colored yellow as in Cameroon, and that the steering wheel is on the right. Simiyu, the taxi driver tells me to put on my seat belt and I am surprised. No taxi driver in Cameroon has ever told me to put on my seatbelt. He is so kind and friendly and tells me everything I want to know, and this hospitability is as well shown by most of the people I meet in Kenya. As we head to the Intercontinental Hotel, I realize that Mombasa Road looks like some streets in Douala. The only difference being that there are no potholes on Mombasa Road.

The security and orderliness in Nairobi is really commendable and it would be nice if Cameroon could emulate some of it. On several occasions during the festival, many people told me that they thought that Cameroon was a French speaking country and they were surprised by the fact that I spoke English, and it is a sad issue because it attests to the way Cameroon sells her image internationally. For example, while Gabon advertises her tourism industry in English on CNN, Cameroon advertises her tourism industry in French on Africa 24. Not that I have anything against Africa 24, but seriously…

Finally, I'd like to thank the Goethe-Institut in Cameroon and Kenya for giving me the opportunity to take part in this culturally enriching program.

Dienstag, 15. Januar 2013

• to enjoy as much as possible of the KWANI Litfest
• to get to know the six other authors in the Moving Africa group
• to engage in “conversations with the horn” (of Africa)
• to see what KWANI trust is all about
• to get a taste of the soul of Nairobi and maybe Kenya
• to forge literary and friendly bonds at every opportunity
• to dance, to eat, drink, be merry and look terribly intellectual at the same time

On my first “real day” in Nairobi the fear in face of this tall order becomes relative. We’re supposed to attend the opening mingling event of the KWANI Litfest at Kifaru Gardens in Lavington. After about thirty minutes of what seems like pretty aimless driving and turning back to me (the taxi driver’s sense of direction is worse than mine, which is infamously bad), fellow Mover of Africa Féling Capela from Mozambique produces a piece of paper from his pocket:
“I have a map!”
You see, I think, direction will come in due time.

When I find myself locked in the toilet, which is called “washroom” in Kenya, at Kifaru Gardens a bit later, I am totally zen about it. There are six million people in Nairobi. One of them will hear me and help me out, right? Somebody does and over the next days I do get to experience much more than I have mapped out in my tall order list.

• We attend panel discussions, lectures, film screenings, readings and performances.
• I discover the literature and authors of the horn of Africa.
• We swap, buy and plan books.
• I get to read some of my own stuff to an attentive audience.
• We get stuck in Nairobi traffic.
• We get lost and stuck in Eastleigh, so actually get to see from outside the taxi.
• I dance at an exclusively exclusive decadent party in Westlands.
• We get to be part of an unexpected but priceless group discussion on mutants and mutations with Kojo Laing.
• We mingle with the local literature, arts, music and culture scene.
• I touch a living legend, poet Hadraawi from Somalia.
• I enjoy the privilege of having a male harem, my fellow Moving Africans Chuma, Charles, Féling, Kivu, Ntone, Kojo. When and where shall weseven meet again?
• I experience too many special moments with too many special people to mention here.
• I taste Kuku and Mbuzi Choma. (I’ll have to come back for the famous Nyama Choma)
• I drink Tusker and decide Namibian beer is still the best.

Five days were not enough because at the end of each of these five days I was up to another five days like that. The experience was exponentially enriching and so the number of stories I have to tell back home in Namibia has increased exponentially too.

I would love to revisit the temple of Kwani Litfest, courtesy of Goethe-Institut. Iam glad the Institute had looked no further.

It is now almost a month past the days of my stay in Nairobi for the Kwani Litfest. I will recount my experience at the festival and try to cut it down to the size you need. It has exceeded my expectations.
Iam writing this piece to save the left-over bits for another day. I hope I won’t forget to put back in the drain plug! I love you Goethe-Institut. You are the first ever to grant me such space at a key literary event. For that, and for your warmth and thoughtfulness, Iam ever indebted.

Now, allow me to climb out of this. I was one of 8 fellow writers booted from their homes to attend a litfest organized by Kwani Trust in Nairobi. I think we laid to waste a sizeable chunk of Goethe-Institut’s budget. What a treasure of a cultural centre it is! I think it is only fair to add that we are also in debt upto our eyballs to Kwani Trust for its sustained attention to us and for organizing the serial event. It was a basket of literary goodies at which we threw our small change. My hat is off to whoever was responsible for the feat at Kwani Litfest. It was a team thing, though.

I met a mob of seething book-worms at the festival. I played up the close ties alot. There was Chuma Nwokolo from Nigeria with his epic humor. Feling Capela from Mozambique was busy climbing over the backs of others with his inevitable camera. There was, too, Dzekashu Mac Viban of Cameroon in the final stretch of his Masters on Commonwealth Literature. Kivu Ruhorahoza from Rwanda was part of the brotherhood. And then there was sylvia Schlettwein whose name does not go away quickly. Because she was the only female redeeming grace in our midst. Ntone Edjabe from cameroon was a thrill. The renowned Ghanian writer Kojo Laing was inspiring. At a sitting, he fought for every inch of ground for that which was whimsical and metaphysical in African Writing. I would love to rerun the attack!

There was a way back out. During the lectures and talk sessions, I battled at the plate for an understanding of the Horn and its legacies that are shaping the narrative of this vital region of Africa. It is not a limping weak wreckage as portrayed by the media. The Horn is not an hungry octopus. Of course, we are used to it calling in sick all the time.

But as a big uppercut to East Africa, it has some nice perks, if you like. It is just one of those perils of being past political menopause. I see a bright literary future for the Horn and the whole of East Africa. Time will come when we will not hold the shirt tails of West Africa and elsewhere in the continent. Our writers are a force on the side of change and hope. We will get rid of wars and atrocities. Fleas do not own the dog they live on. I can see somebody flashing the V-sign for victory!

That is cool. It is even so when you peer out over the streets of Nairobi and catch a glimpse of the vigil of song and dance. It lines our region up closely with the spirit of being. That, I think, is our narrative in the Horn and around.

Don’t tell me this is a big fat lie. Don’t even bother to let me know if that may well be just diaper rash. We are grown-ups. I want to get that stir out of you, people. I can still remember Somali youth in Eastleigh giggling at Hadarawi’s poignant poetry. One thing you should know about Eastleigh is that it does not have the feel of a tidy surburb, to say the least. There was alot of blah about Helon Habila and Binyavanga Wainaina. The aroma of El Poet’s poems was hovering around the festival.

I took a bite of Meaza Barok’s play performance. She is a young playwright from Ethiopia. I was struck by her humbleness. You don’t get to find a person like this on almost every street, alley or lane in our world today. God, I love this continent!

Fortunately, nobody was hospitalized for a bad cough. Nor did anyone left by the back door. One thing about my trip to Nairobi was staying up late. We choked on it. Nairobi nights never really run low on people. Fun is always in the air. We had plenty of that. I had my cushion of sobriety to glide over, though. I was a bit battered by fellow writers participating in the Moving Africa Program. I told them abstaining from hard drinks was a choice, not grasping at the straws of a cult or religion. I had no energy to fight over the carcass of looking ‘normal’.

I had plenty to talk about and hear from many others over bowls of soup across Nairobi. We peeled back the layers of the emerging narrative of what may be dubbed African writing. Will it be another account midwifed in violence, poverty, fatalism and self-pity and apologetics? Or will it be rolled up the ladder of keeping Africa green, robust and diverse? Which of these accounts will writers wait out, if any? What I know now is this, somebody will one day capture Jerusalem for the pope.

I miss our conversations! I am confident that the discourse started under the Moving Africa Program will continue to cause head-scratching in the halls of contemporary African writing. The skeptics may collapse over this. Misadventure hardly squares with our nature. Proponents of this push have just got the next best thing: staking out their territory in today’s world literature. But they will have to climb over the backs of those critics in hysterics. The pot is on the verge of boiling over. It is my fervent hope that this will not go right down the toilet. At least, until such time I revisit the temple in Nairobi, Kwani.

Montag, 10. Dezember 2012

I cannot compete with the religion of money. But I know of a better form of god, writing. I love it to bits. It is a very welcome thing to be able to turn up at Kwani? 2012 Litfest, courtesy of Goethe-Institut Johannesburg. This powerhouse of cultural exchange programs has made me look unsettlingly happy. Over the last few weeks, I have been snooping through emails because of this truly beautiful idea floated by Goethe-Institut or whatever floats their boat.

I can’t wait to be at Kwani? Litfest! Yes, it is a pretty decent guess that Iam like a teenage girl at her first boy band concert. I like to stand by quotes. I know I cannot make it without this stitch of help. Infact, i don’t recall ever hearing of South Sudanese taking a smoke break behind the scenes of a grand litfest in their continent Africa and elsewhere around the globe.

The paradox is, we have been around for a long time! I could not for the life of me understand why the then Sudan dedicated years to doing bad things while Africa was really crawling with writers from Nigeria, Kenya, Uganda, South Africa, Ghana, Egypt and others.
We were far behind in the run. As a South Sudanese, I deeply feel that we have missed a whole episode of catching the pack of letters in the clubhouse between rounds. I can only wish that we could catch the re-run!

That is why Kwani? 2012 is a mixed blessing. I hope somebody will spare a thought for us as we are returning from the literary wilderness. We will carry our cross of infirmity with your pat on the back. This is easier said when you are trying to make a clever joke.
For those of you who remained outside the fray, remember that peace is priceless. Don’t take it for granted. Do not be tempted to gain infamy for civil wars. It will thin out as you go up. Like us before, you would grow tired of your nuances and fart to a standstill. You would bore your neighbors out of their minds and remain something of a hired gun.

When others are basking in the mild sun, you would call in sick. The whole of Africa would be sipping a mug of tea while you waste your time killing a housefly with bazooka. You would poke and prod each other to no end while Mama Africa dances around its literature. Yours would be the tale of a hard-luck dog.

As South Sudanese, we have come out on the other side and folded our laundry. We will write this one off to experience. It is pretty much for all eyes to see behind the curve. We will get a grain of satisfaction to see others in Africa flicking the fly away. War is unwelcome at all times.

To prove a point, I will spend a ton of my time at Kwani? 2012 Litfest filling places till the small hours to learn from others. I know it is going to be a full house. I expect to see writers like cans, all lined up. Iam going to chill out and just get a grip. I trust they will also be happy to watch me playing in the shallow end of the pool! You already know, I will have not strayed far from mommy’s house!